


The Wrong Sort

by DaisyChainz



Series: Good Omens Ficlets [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Demons Are Assholes, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-29 21:43:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19839073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyChainz/pseuds/DaisyChainz
Summary: Aziraphale wouldn't believe Crowley handles competition or jealousy well.Crowley believes he handles competition and jealousy perfectly.





	The Wrong Sort

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley doesn't possess poor Edward, but he physically manipulates him and generally really screws with his head.

Crowley was making plans for the afternoon. They included terrorizing his plants into submission (there had been a few too many dropped leaves as of late), sending another memo to Hell praising his latest work with the tax services, and camping out at the bookshop. 

Usually Crowley only went to the bookshop in the evening, when it was officially closed. The truth was, the shop was almost always closed, for Aziraphale's fear that someone would actually try to buy one of his precious books. Personally, Crowley didn't see the big deal. He felt audiobooks were the wave of the future. 

However, Aziraphale's neighbors had begun to grow suspicious, as they were liable to do when he kept the shop shuttered, yet never went out of business. Words like "illegal activities" and "hoarder" were starting to get bandied around. So Aziraphale felt it best he open for a few hours on a Monday morning. Maybe only two. Didn't want to give anyone time to get really comfortable around his dear books. 

Normally, the idea of watching people read books (other than Aziraphale) made Crowley want to raise literal Hell. However, there had been a growing concern lately, and Crowley made certain he hadn't missed a recent 'Open' day at the bookshop. 

"Why exactly are you here, again?" Aziraphale glanced at Crowley draped over one of his armchairs as he made his way to flip the sign to open. 

"Security." Crowley supplied flippantly, leaning his shaded eyes up towards the ceiling. 

Aziraphale paused ever so slightly, then continued on his task. On his return journey from the door he stopped in front of Crowley's occupied seat. "Excuse me?"

"Security." Repeated Crowley, bouncing the leg he had propped over the stuffed chair arm. 

When no more information was forthcoming Aziraphale adjusted his bowtie and tried again. "What exactly is it you are protecting the bookshop from?"

It wasn't the shop he was keeping secure, but of course Crowley kept that to himself. He planted both feet on the ground, glared at Aziraphale's little houseplant on the counter nearby (it perked up immediately, putting a little effort in, finally) and leaned forward. "Lately I've noticed that when you've been open, you're attracting the wrong sort in here."

Aziraphale blinked. Twice more. He wondered if he was supposed to laugh, because surely Crowley was joking. "Whatever are you talking about? As far as I can tell I've had all the usual sort in here. The browsers, the read-without-buyers, the page flippers. The only ones I worry over are the ones that think they actually want to buy." Aziraphale gave a little shiver. As he started to turn away from Crowley a thought struck him. "You don't mean there have been any of your type in here, surely? Do they even read?"

"Hey now! That's hardly fair. We've got tons of great writers down there."

Aziraphale gave him a smug look. "Not the same thing. But have they been?"

Crowley considered that for a moment. Deciding that was something he could work with he settled back in his chair. "Maybe."

Aziraphale's face furrowed, but he continued on through the shop. 

The truth was, there was only one wrong sort that had been in the shop recently. Crowley sat up just a fraction, his body going tense but trying to look nonchalant-- and there he was now.

A man just a little younger than Aziraphale and himself (the age they appeared, the man wasn't six thousand years old of course) was pushing the shop door open, heralded by a tiny bell ringing and alerting Aziraphale to his presence. Crowley glared as he watched a broad smile appear on Aziraphale's face as he walked to meet him. The man had once joked that every time the bell rang an Angel got his wings. Crowley gagged a little. 

Crowley had not been present the first time he came in, nor on subsequent visits for quite some time. So he, the man's name was Edward, had quite entrenched himself before Crowley was even aware of the threat. 

Crowley was knew of Him because Aziraphale had talked about him. But it was a while before Crowley realized he was someone that needed watching. 

Aziraphale had chuckled once or twice about a patron that had never read Oscar Wilde. He had enjoyed educating the man, over several visits, about his favorite author. He shared a few tales of his escapades, explained the humor in his works, and generally ignited a potential new follower. He was quite pleased with himself. 

It wasn't until Aziraphale said that he had--because of course he wouldn't Sell the man a book--but had Lent him one of his signed editions, that Crowley realised there was a problem. 

Now he watched Aziraphale talking animatedly to Edward, discussing the latest book he was returning. Crowley glared in Edward's direction, the man standing much closer to the Angel than was necessary for the discussion, and certainly more than was actually polite. Edward was taller than Aziraphale, though surely not as tall as Crowley. He had wavy dark blond curls that brushed the collar of his neat, well-tailored suit. An expensive looking tie was in a perfect Windsor knot. Crowley glared at it.

Edward cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, expression not diminishing or leaving Aziraphale's. 

Overall, Crowley found Edward much too young, attractive, and eager for him to be an approved patron. Crowley turned his attention to Edward's highly polished shoes. 

Edward's expression changed just slightly and he shifted where he stood. He still listened intently to whatever pearls of wisdom Crowley was certain Aziraphale was wasting on him. 

Crowley shifted his glare higher. Edward's intense look wavered. He leaned down to brush at his ankles. 

The fidgeting continued on up his legs until Aziraphale began to notice. It seemed to calm when he glanced back to Crowley's chair. He looked bored and indifferent. 

As soon as the conversation resumed Crowley sat back up a little. This time he concentrated on Edward's hands. Suddenly, he threw them up into the air. Looking at his own arms with alarm, then back at Aziraphale, Edward said desperately "oh! I couldn't agree with you more!" Suddenly his hands slapped back down to his sides. There was a long pause as Aziraphale tried to politely hide his reaction to Edward's odd behaviour. Crowley plucked at his cuticles as Aziraphale picked the conversation back up. 

After that it almost seemed as though Edward was frozen. He nodded as Aziraphale spoke, but his body didn't so much as twitch, and he had a rather maniacal grin pasted on his face. 

Then his eyes started rolling, searching. Almost as if he could hear voices, but couldn't figure out where they were coming from, because they were coming from his own head. 

And they were. Because Crowley put them in there. 

Aziraphale tried his best to continue as though nothing was wrong, but even he finally interrupted himself. "I'm sorry Edward. But, are you quite all right?"

At that moment Edward looked toward where Crowley was sitting, now perched on the edge of his seat. Crowley gave him a long, slow smile, and pulled his sunglasses down to the end of his nose. 

Edward jerked his head back towards Aziraphale, his limbs gangly as though he had just learned to use them. "What?" His voice had a breathless quality, like he had just run the perimeter of the shop a dozen times. "No! I mean . . . Yes! Yes, of course. I'm fine! Couldn't be better. But, uh." His watch arm flew up into his face. "I just remembered, I have to be . . . Uh, somewhere. So good bye!" And with that, Edward turned into a table full of books, managed to keep himself and the table standing, and all but ran from the shop, leaving the door wide open. 

Aziraphale looked around in confusion, his eyes catching on Crowley's angles clashing with his plush chair (now comfortably re-draped over the fabric). "Crowley." He said in his most stern tone. "Did you have something to do with that?"

"I got no idea what you're talking about," Crowley said languidly, then tipped his head down and caught Aziraphale's eyes with his directly, "Angel." Without looking away Crowley snapped his fingers and Aziraphale heard the front door slam shut.

Aziraphale had no idea why that suddenly gave him a cold chill. Or was it a hot flash? No idea whatsoever.


End file.
